Forever Young
by truglasgowgal
Summary: They are always blond. With just the right shade of ocean blues. Never tall. Slim, slight build. But it all falls down to the smile in the end.


Title: Forever Young  
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own anything, except a couple of my own wee char an the plot bunny (you can decide if it actually exists ;) )  
A/N: Bold type is a flashback to the past/memories  
Summary: They are always blond. With just the right shade of ocean blues. Never tall. Slim, slight build. But it all falls down to the smile in the end.

* * *

They are always blond. With just the right shade of ocean blues. Never tall. Slim, slight build.

But it all falls down to the smile in the end.

He ignores the reason behind this, subconscious or not, tells himself blue-eyed blonds are just his type. He conveniently forgets his first serious girlfriend was a brunette.

X

Thanksgiving is always awkward. No matter what anyone does to try and liven it up, it always goes back to that – that day.

This year is no different.

His father always asks the same question of him: "Have you been to see your sister lately?"

He's just closed a particularly difficult case, and he's – admittedly – had a little too much to drink.

He turns to his father and laughs mirthlessly as he says, "Yeah, but she wasn't there."

His sister, the eldest of the females in the household, coughs as she chokes on her food.

By her side, he catches the silent smile spilling over the lips of her counterpart, barely a year separating them.

And across from him, his younger brother has a hand to his mouth as he tries to quell his laughter.

Next to them, their respective partners are quiet, unsure how to react.

Their father ignores them all, and gives him a stern look. He wonders for a moment if he'll slap him for his insolence, but knows he won't.

"Don't be so disrespectful. That's your sister you're talking about."

There's something haunting about his father's eyes though. And he looks down at his whiskey glass, his face darkening, his grip tightening.

And the inevitable happens, what he's been putting up with for God-knows-how-long; 18 years.

"If it wasn't for you, she'd be here, sitting at this table, not out _there_ – "

"Enough!"

It is his sister who shouts, the younger one, the supposed timid one in the family; putting a stop to what they've endured since it all began; or ended, depending on how you looked at it.

"I am _sick_ of you doing this, Dad, year-upon-year," she tells him, giving him a hard look.

"This is Thanksgiving. We should be laughing and joking and sharing stories about what we're thankful for. Not listening to you blame Donnie for something that happened years ago."

"There's not much to be thankful for when one of your children isn't home with you," the man replied sourly, looking up at his daughter through eyes of thinly-veiled resentment.

"You can't keep blaming Donnie, Dad," she says softly, simply.

"It's not his fault. He was just a kid. We were _all_ just kids."

She's trying to plead with him through her eyes, wide and glassy.

_Bambi eyes_.

Only one person could ever do that. Only one person could ever get it to work.

"No, _she_ wasn't a kid. She was a child. A baby. My little baby girl."

His face has cracked, the tears falling fast and sudden.

The eldest gets up and goes over to him, holding him in her arms and rocking him, whispering soothing words in his ear.

He takes the opportunity to leave the table.

The sound of the front door closing is the next thing they hear.

x

It gleams white in the sun, engraved stone.

His father hasn't been there yet, he can tell by the lack of fresh white carnations in the metal holders on the base.

He crouches in front of the marble and slowly, of their own accord; his fingers reach out to sweep the grass and leaves away.

They fall upon gold letters, and he traces over them, closing his eyes as the images and voices spin through his head; memories of a time past, never to be returned, gone.

_Ava Anne Flack_  
_Born: 8__th__ September 1983_

_There's no place like home._

He smiles as he reads those words. The Wizard of Oz. Her favourite.

She was wearing her sparkly-ruby shoes that day; her hair split into two pigtails, red ribbon securing her loose locks as they fell over her shoulders. She was so happy.

Her smile could light up his world.

The noise is deafening as it rings through his ears and he's jolted back.

Back to 18 years ago.

Back to when they lost her forever.

x

**He's lying on the ground, his head crushing into the grit, a heavy boot at the base of his neck. He can taste copper in his mouth and has lost all feeling in his right hand; the metal of his watchstrap bites into his skin and his palm feels wet and sticky.**

**He hears his name being called, but isn't sure if he's imagining it.**

**Then he hears a scuffle of shoes on stone, and he's aware of another presence.**

"**My, my," the man marvels at the sight. "So pretty. Lovely. A tasty little treat to make my day complete. Special. So special."**

**His name is a desperate whimper now, and he could place that voice anywhere. His chest constricts, and he feels tears spring to his eyes.**

**He's more determined than ever now. But his fingers slip by each other, continually, and he can't for the life of him get a solid grip on the pen in his pocket.**

"**Look at how pretty she is when she falls down," the man taunts from above, leering down.**

**A loud bang echoes off the walls around them, a heavy clicking follows, and he hears a light tinkling as something metallic hits stone.**

**He finally grabs hold of the slender plastic, wrenches it from tight denim, and thrusts it painfully into his attacker's calf. **

**A strangled scream resounds above him. **

**He wrestles his head round, wrenching it from beneath solid leather and rubber that has loosened somewhat with the impact, ****and his** **eyes shoot across the damp ground, widening as they settle on their target.**

**A hollow shell casing lies discarded; a pool of crimson is slowly seeping into the ground, winding across the asphalt, painting it red. **

**And he's suddenly met with those familiar soft blonde curls, those striking blue eyes, and that wondrous smile; his heart catches in his throat.**

**Because her hair no longer holds its shine, her eyes have lost their sparkle, and her smile isn't aglow with the brightness of childish innocence.**

**And then his world goes black, and she's gone.**

x

When his eyes snap open, his head no longer spinning, he realizes his face is wet; the salt of his grief meandering down his cheeks.

He stands up shakily, exhales deeply; wipes his sweaty palms on the thighs of his pants.

Unconsciously, he raises a hand to the back of his head, and rubs his neck; his palm runs over the scar, puckered flesh beneath his fingertips, and his hand drops instantly to his side.

It happens everytime.

She's not even there.

He stares angrily at the ground for a moment, eyes boring into the grass beneath his feet like he can see what's under it.

Nothing but a mahogany coffin.

An empty casing.

After a moment, he steals a glance over at the matching white stone on the other side, his mother's.

But this is not about her.

He sighs, and places a hand on top of the marble.

She might not be there now, but one day she might.

And it's a haunting thing to think that she _should_ be there, in the ground, lying cold and dead in a casket.

Shaking his head, and running a weary hand over his face, he caresses the cold stone beneath his thumb.

Then he drops a single purple hyacinth and watches it land on the base, the solid gold lettering emblazoned across it almost mocking him as he turns and walks away.

_There's no place like home._

x

He's a wreck when he gets there.

Dropping onto the sofa like a dead weight, he sits, quite still; elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Soft arms encase him from behind; a gentle head rests on his shoulder, loose blond curls cascading down his chest, and he turns to meet ocean-blue eyes.

He releases a breath, and she holds him tighter.

Something catches his eye on the windowsill and he turns his head to look at it.

It's a cactus, the one he got for his 16th birthday; from her.

Small, green, enduring.

And slowly he smiles.

One day the call would come in that they'd found a body; blonde hair, blue eyes, forget-me-not smile; but, until then, he was simply content to draw comfort where he could.

At least this way she would be forever young.

**End.**

* * *

White Carnation: Pure love, Sweet love, Innocence  
Purple Hyacinth: Please forgive me  
Cactus: Bravery and Endurance

Thanks for reading, this sorta came to me last night, an I really wanted to get it typed up before I lost it. Please let me know what you thought, your comments mean a lot – con.crit is welcomed too.  
The spacing didn't work out like I wanted - it never does on here :( - but I did my best with it.  
Thanks again for reading.  
Steph  
xxx


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